


Fads

by KousKousx



Series: Kous' Drabbles [3]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: M/M, Technical Non-Con, aged up morty, darkest thing i've written yet, lord help me, technically a drabble, un'beta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-13 02:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7134497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KousKousx/pseuds/KousKousx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even with the divide, all Rick’s of differing opinions and decrees agreed on one thing: what a Rick did with his Morty was that Rick’s business, and that Rick’s business alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fads

**Author's Note:**

> Had this laying around my docs for months now, so I figured I'd release it. It's probably the rawest piece I've released in regards of lack of read throughs and content, but fuck it, here it is. It's a fairly dark and I had full intentions of writing it that way. It's a spin on the whole Pocket Morty's craze. It's a thanks for the 500 kudos for Dazed and Rickfused.
> 
> Thanks again, guys!

Fads, they come and go.

Sure, there will always be enthusiasts. Lunatics who cram every inch of their home with whatever kitsch merchandise happened to be the trend of decades ago, if only to catch their 15 minutes of fame on a television show that both highlighted and mocked their accomplishments. Yeah, there would always be those type of weirdos around, doting and obsessing nonsensically over their collection, willing to spend themselves out of house and home. With their big eyes, cute stuttering, and easy maintenance, Pocket Morty’s were no different, but in a world of Rick and Morty’s, Pocket Morty’s also brought out a different brand of fans from the wood work.

Rick--Rick from dimension OU-473, to be exact--knew what particular brand of _fan_ he was. A Rick that coveted a Morty, stared at a Morty for a bit too long, wanted Morty as both a _partner_ and a _companion_ , was dubbed a Rick of a different persuasion.

A Rick that wanted a Morty for a little more than his brain-waves wasn’t a particularly popular type of Rick. Rick’s as a whole were split on the subject. Some Rick’s were intimate with their Morty’s, some were not. There were Rick’s here and there that romanced their Morty’s, who saw their Morty as more than a friend and a grandson. There were also Rick’s who spat and washed their hands of the idea, turning up their noses at the Rick’s who indulged themselves in such gross, selfish fantasies.

Even with the divide, all Rick’s of differing opinions and decrees agreed on one thing: what a Rick did with his Morty was that Rick’s business, and that Rick’s business alone.

That didn’t make OU-473 feel any less of a shit stain on the Citadel. Some Rick’s who _preferred the company of Morty’s_ didn’t feel a sliver of shame about it. Why should they? A Rick was a Rick, a Morty was a Morty. Rick’s took what they wanted, and Morty’s followed along for the ride. Morty’s struggled to listen and take even the most half-assed of orders. Morty’s were seen, not heard, under the overbearing bark of their Rick’s.

OU-473 liked to think he was different. He thought of his own Morty at home, safe and thankfully unaware of the politics over their relationship but his guts still squirmed.

Morty from OU-473 wasn’t particularly different or anything special as far as Morty’s went. OU-473 was your ordinary Morty, smaller-brain-than-average included. He stuttered nervously, laughed occasionally in between panic attacks, lusted after red-heads. No different from your run-of-the-mill Morty, but he was _this_ Rick’s Morty, and special in his own right. It wasn’t too uncommon for Rick’s to lose a Morty and just as easily replace one. The thought of replacing his Morty made OU-473’s heart feel like it was bleeding out raw, which made him relate a little closer to the _Doofus Spectrum_ of Rick’s, just with the intelligence, bitterness and loathsome for Jerry’s still attached.

So maybe that’s why the thought of OU-473 being intimate with his Morty was far too jarring. His Morty was one the more sensitive and sheltered when it came to the every-day Morty. He wasn’t a Morty who was born at the Citadel, or who had left the comfortable confines of his home planet. He was a Morty with a Smith family that, albeit as dysfunctional as the next Smith family, loved and cared for him deeply.

It was why about a year ago, OU-473 took off from his own dimension and never looked back.

Getting a place at the Citadel wasn’t all too difficult. There was cheap, public housing for Rick’s who were down on their luck, Rick’s who were still trying to find an arms trade or two to get their feet wet and needed a little _Pub-Rick-Assistance_. With a down payment of a few hundred schmeckles, Rick had a small, grody studio that overlooked the east junction of the Citadel. It wasn’t anything fabulous--the water at times would run brown and there was only one fucking window--but it had a toilet and clean bed sheets and that’s all this Rick could ask for.

All that he needed-- _wanted_ \--was a Morty. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t daily tuck himself in the back of a Rick’s only bar (which was, unsurprisingly, open 24 hours, 7 days a week, and packed to the brim with drunk and sloppy Rick’s) pining for his Morty. Rick’s heart ached over the memories of their adventures, to see that wide smile on Morty’s face. Morty’s grin was a rare sight, but one that Rick treasured when he managed to actually make his grandson laugh past his nerves. Rick thought of his Morty’s big, brown eyes and soft mess of curls, how tall and lean he had gotten with age, and the soft flush that Morty’s skin got after a good run from Galactic Federation scum or over a simple multiplication problem.

Yes, these memories pained Rick, and reminded him why Rick’s who weren’t keen on their Morty’s were determined to live and die alone. For a long while, Rick resigned himself to a life of torment, living day by day with the icy, terrible thought of what never could be with his Morty, than dare lay a finger on him or any lookalike, for that matter.

He felt that way up until he caught wind of what Storage-Rick provided.

Down through the sour grape vine, in one of the particularly busier days at his usual frequented bar, OU-473’s eyes fell on two Rick’s who were huddled rather conspicuously a few seats over at the countertop of the tavern. With darting eyes and hushed whispers, both Rick’s nursed a tumbler a scotch and tightly drawn frowns, giving off the aura of not wanting to be distracted or heard. Curiosity got the better of OU-473 and he slid a little closer, training his hearing past the deep bass of the music to what the two Rick’s had to say.

“...Very hush-hush, guy doesn’t do business with just anyone. Hu _Uugh_ ge price tag too, the asshole--he isn’t fucking around, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Yeah? Fucking genius--never liked the cocksucker, but I, I can give a Rick credit when credit is due.” The Rick to the left shifted in his spot, gave an indignant sniff, and raised his eyebrow. “How do I-- _you know_ \--”

OU-473 had to lean a little closer to the left to hear from over the Rick’s on the right’s shoulder.

“Ask to see Veronica’s tool shed. Don’t--fuck if I know what that means, but that’s--that’s how you get in. And you didn’t hear that shit from me.”

“Vero _Ounigh_ nica?” The inquiring Rick’s face contorted in confusion. “Why--why ‘Veronica?’”

“I don’t know, go down to the Daycare Center and ask the prick yourself.”

“Mmmm,” The Rick to the left sighed and sipped from his glass. “Living t-the dream, that bastard. Making millions off of exploiting a few desperate creeps. Fucking hate that guy.”

“Tell me about it,” was a dejected mumble from the other, until they caught wind of OU-473 peering into their conversation. With a prompt flip of the bird, both Rick’s picked up their drinks and made off to the other side of the bar, completely unaware of what type of Rick had been privy to their information.

After a few weeks of digging and bribing, OU-473 had all the information he needed on Storage-Rick’s most recent endeavors. OU-473 worked odd-end jobs here or there--security at drug deals, delivery of illegal cargo, selling self-made weapons out of the back of his ship. It had taken a few weeks of saving his schmeckles, but OUO-73 made his way to Storage Rick’s most frequented and largest facility with a pocket heavy with his earnings. Since the crave of Pocket Morty’s, Storage-Rick had opened up a few more destinations within a couple of the better known Nebula’s. An influx in the Morty-Market demanded more Morty’s, so there was a need for more Morty Storage, hence Storage-Rick’s highly acclaimed fame and fortune. Yes, he was written off by more of the old-money Rick’s, but even they could not ignore Storage-Rick’s deep, grating laughter as he rode the Pocket Morty’s wave straight to the fucking bank.

Some of the more envious Rick’s probably hoped that Storage-Rick would hurt with Pocket Morty’s decline in popularity, but those Rick’s were sorely mistaken. Trainers lost interest, Morty’s piled upon Morty’s in once avid collector’s homes, so Morty’s had to be stored, for the most part, indefinitely.

Storage-Rick’s empire grew and soon enough, some of the Morty’s he was given to store became his employees, working behind the counter and in the stock room to take unwanted Morty’s off of the hands of both Rick’s and aliens alike. Even the occasional Jerry would drop off car loads of Morty’s. The pen outside of Storage-Rick’s Morty Daycare had grown into a full fledge farm.

A few pulls of his flask made OU-473’s trek past the high, static gates a little easier. He kept his eyes trained to the rain soaked sidewalk rather than the long, sad faces of Morty’s as he made his way by the Citadel Guards minding the enclosure. OU-473 had been drinking steadily since waking this noon, because even a Rick needed liquid courage from time to time. He wasn’t sure what blurred his vision worse; the quick scrolling sign of Storage-Rick’s compound or the cold rain pouring wildly down from the sky.

By the time he mustered the strength to walk inside, OU-473 was soaked to the bone, jacket clinging to the angles of his body. Who greeted him at the counter was not Storage Rick--he had left his position from behind the counter a few store-openings-ago--but by a Morty, dressed in a button down similar to his employer’s, with a name-tag of his own.

“Hello!” He greeted, all wide eyes and nervous smiles--the definition of a Morty. “W-welcome to the Storage Center, how can I help you? P-picking up a Morty today, sir? O-or dropping off?”

It had been a long time since Rick had allowed himself to speak to a Morty. It had been hard to look at one, let alone manage to mumble a few drunk, broken syllables to him.

 _I-it’s not him_ , he internally reasoned. _He’s not your Morty_. It was his mantra for not only today, but the past few weeks, since finding out what Storage Rick kept locked in his basement.

“Uh, hey, uh, no--not, not tonight. Need--Is Storage-Rick around?” Closing time was approaching, and Storage-Rick liked to float around between Daycare centers, but this one--his original--is where he called headquarters.

“Um, h-he is, yes,” This Morty, which after a quick glance at his nametag, told OU-473 he was from dimension T7-X, was still all smiles. “He is, b-but is there something I can help you with, sir?”

“No, I--I really need to speak to your boss, M-MoOughrty,” Rick burped in his fist, which felt hot with alcohol.

T7-X hesitated, eyed OU-473 in a familiar way that shouldn’t have made him weak, but had obliged none the less.

“O-okay, yes sir, please give me a few moments to get him.”

Apart from a few Morty’s, gagged with packing tape and silenced, Rick was alone in the rather average confines of the store front, left to stew in his own thoughts.

 _Plenty of Rick’s do this_ , the strumming of his own fingers on the hard plastic counter was deafening amidst his turmoil. _What--what a Rick does with his Morty, is only his business._

But his Morty was back in his own dimension, far from the reaches of OU-473’s grasp. The Morty he was about to purchase wasn’t his Morty at all, at least until Storage-Rick said so.

A crude “yeah?” was Storage-Rick’s initial greeting once he stepped out from the back, the clerical Morty trailing close behind him, nervously pulling at the collar of his shirt. Storage-Rick was still in his uniform, pink socks and all. Riches hadn’t curbed his poor choice in clothing.

OU-473 looked at Storage-Rick and it was like looking at what he could have been, if dimensions had changed: an incredibly successful, if not sleazy, brand of business-Rick. There were plenty Business-Rick’s, in plenty of dimensions. But for sure, Storage-Rick was an entity of his own.

“I know you?” Storage-Rick wiped his nose on the back of his arm and twirled his toothpick between his teeth, leaning on one knee as he propped a boot up on a shelf behind the counter.

“No _Ough_ pe,” After an audible hiccup, OU-473 continued. “Never had the pleasure of meeting,” Storage-Rick didn’t seem pleased with the answer but he remained silent as he waited for OU-473 to continue, who carefully dropped his tone. “But I’m--I’m looking for Veronica’s tool shed--and I heard you’re the guy to go to.”

OU-473 tried to ignore the dark look that raised on Morty’s face from behind the register, focusing instead on the way Storage-Rick’s brow raised in curiosity.

“That so, hm?” Storage-Rick’s eyes never left his as he took a step closer towards the back room’s door. “Alright, sir. Come--walk around the counter and head right this way.”

Surprised by how easy it all was, OU-473 cautiously made his way around the front desk, his steps measured carefully as he attempted not to drunkenly stumble on his own two feet. He reached into his pocket and clutched the handle of his laser-gun tight as he followed Storage-Rick inside. Only once they were away from the counter and the door was locked behind them did Storage-Rick whip around. With a box-cutter in one hand, Storage-Rick was quicker when he made a grab for OU-473’s shirt collar, pushing him against the door with all the force his thin frame could muster.

“Put the gun down and, and show me your hands, cocksucker.” The sharp edge of the blade pressed against UOU-73’s stubbled jugular, not hard enough to draw blood, but just enough to remind UOU-73 who was calling the shots. OU-473 dropped the gun in its place and slowly raised his hands, not without narrowing his eyes. “Who--who sent you here? Y-you undercover, y-y-you scummy piece of shit?”

OU-473’s throat bobbed when Storage Rick pressed the knife a little closer. “Do I _look_ like a cop?” Not every Rick could bend their will to the law, so the position of Citadel Police was left for a rare, few select Rick’s who were prepped for the job. “You treat all your customers like this, dickbreath?”

“Undercover cops can look like anything, hence _undercover_?” Storage Rick tightened his hand in OU-473’s shirt, and OU-473 finally felt the tiniest of cuts from the blade. “You have--you got five seconds to convince me otherwise. What’s your home dimension?”

“O-OU-473,” Rick hiccuped, his shoulders shaking against the door behind him from its momentum. “Reach into my pocket--if that--if th _aAugh_ t doesn’t convince you otherwise, then do us both a favor and kill me already.”

Glaring suspiciously, Storage Rick hesitantly reached into OU-473’s pocket. With the way he felt around, OU-473 could tell Storage-Rick was careful of a possible weapon left in there for prying hands.

What Storage-Rick found first was his flask. With a quick look in OU-473’s direction, Storage-Rick confiscated it before reaching back inside his jacket to search again. OU-473 could tell by the way the other Rick’s hand froze in its search he had found OU-473 “proof.”

Said proof was a very wide lump of rubber banded Schmeckles. It didn’t take long for Storage-Rick to pull the cash from out of its hiding spot hidden in his coat, snapping off the rubber band to fan the individual bills along his thumb.

With a few weary glances from the money to OU-473’s face, Storage-Rick neatly wrapped the Schmeckles back into place, pulling the band tight with a sharp snap.

“Where, uh--where you hear about this?”

“Does it matter?” OU-473 wiped spittle from his mouth once Storage-Rick pulled away his box-cutter. “There it is. 11,000, unmarked Schmeckles, in, in 100 Schmeckle-bills. Just--just like you ask for.”

“Yeah, actually, it does matter? Because that means m-more and more people are catching wind?” Storage-Rick slipped the wad of cash into his pocket before he made his way to the other side of what appeared to be some type of break room. “If, if the Council catches onto my--this little set-up I have going on--y-you better believe you can kiss that 11,000 Schmeckles good-bye, buddy.”

“Whatever,” OU-473 hiccuped, fingers instinctively searching out his flask. He remembered the loss of it once Storage-Rick was sipping from it unabashedly. “11,000 Schmeckles? For,” OU-473 couldn’t believe his own scorn even before the words left his mouth. “For a Morty? Really?”

Storage-Rick took a long gulp before turning in OU-473 direction. The grin that slithered across Storage-Rick’s face told OU-473 that he didn’t believe his customer’s indignant tone, either.

“Didn’t stop you from pa _AAauUGh_ ying it, you disgusting fuck.” Storage-Rick let out a burp as he stalked across the room and approached a door labeled _STORAGE_. “You coming--you coming with or what?”

The hairs on the back of OU-473’s neck bristled but his feet moved for him, following after Storage-Rick with only the heavy sound of his blood pumping in his ears. With every step, his pulse seemed to quickened until he could feel it thrum down his arms.

When Storage-Rick swung the _STORAGE_ door quick enough to make its hinges squeak, OU-473 instinctively reached for the laser-gun sitting securely in his coat.

In what appeared to be a room full of inconspicuous cardboard boxes was a few Morty’s slacking off with each other from whatever their designated jobs were. OU-473 relaxed somewhat at the sight of them, quickly noting that all of them were dressed similarly to Storage-Rick in blue, button-down shirts.

Two of them, an average looking Morty and a Hobo-Morty, seemed to have a game of Poker going on, with a mess of cards and bills sprawled across a couple packing crates between them. Another Morty, which OU-473 quickly recognized as a Business-Morty, was taking drags from a cigarette, looking down at his cellphone in disinterest.

“Are you,” Storage-Rick’s ire was quick as he stormed forward, yelling hard enough for the veins in his neck to protrude and for his tooth-pick to fall from his lips. “Do I--I’m sorry, do _I_ pay _you_ for _this_!? Did, did I happen to miss the memo from the HR department this month?! You two, ge _EeeUgh_ t back to work!” Pointing at the pair playing cards, both Morty’s were quick to sigh and mumble dejectedly, whispers of “ _alright, jeez_ ” and “ _we’re going, we’re going_ ” under their breath as they collected their respective earnings.

“And _you_!” Storage-Rick snapped his fingers and pointed at the makeshift table the two others Morty’s had just occupied. Pulling the wad cash from out of his pocket, he threw it down to the storage crates and gestured for the Business-Morty to come closer. “Get to counting.”

Business-Morty considered both Rick’s cautiously before tossing his butt out the window, sitting himself in silence as he took the folded bills. Storage-Rick, face still flush from yelling, pulled OU-473’s flask from out of his pocket and took a gracious sip.

“Fucking Mortys,” he murmured, talking outloud to himself. OU-473 could feel a quick glance of Business-Morty on him, could sense the hatred that burned from off of him, but said nothing of it. “Give them a decent wage and they pay you back in kind, little shits.” By the way Business-Morty sat unperturbed, now carefully counting the bounty, he was used to the poor treatment. “Where--where you say you were from again?”

When OU-473’s flask was offered back to him, he took it hesitantly, unsurprised to see the majority of his booze missing. “Dimension OU-473.”

“Is,” Storage Rick dug through his back pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one up before offering another to Business-Morty. “Is that the dimension that’s constantly--it’s got a constant flow of Acid Rain or whatever?”

UOU-73 narrowed his eyes and took a sip from his flask, biting his tongue when he was compelled to call Storage-Rick a stupid asshole. “Uh, no--pretty sure that’s, that’s UY-776.”

“Oh,” Storage-Rick took a long drag, his voice strained from the smoke filling up his lungs. “I was going to say--you look a lot less fucked up than I pictured.”

The rest of Business-Morty’s counting was in silence. Both Business-Morty, Storage-Rick and OU-473 smoked at least seven cigarettes between them, Business-Morty carefully counting not once, not twice, but three times. He deemed himself finished after taking a portable black-light over the bills, verifying they were indeed unmarked.

“L-looks good, boss,” Business-Morty murmured as he rewrapped the bills in their rubber band, his cigarette dangling nearly forgotten in the corner of his mouth.

“Good, take care of it and draw up the paperwork.” Storage-Rick turned to OU-473 once he took his last pull of his cigarette, tossing the filter forgotten on the floor to smolder. “C’mon, let’s--let’s get you a Morty, then.”

Following a quick retina scan from Storage-Rick, OU-473 pushed past the heavy, metal door the two Morty’s from earlier had dejectedly left behind, only to be greeted by a long, set of stairs. Storage Rick put a toothpick between his teeth as they made their way down, the sound of both sets of their footsteps echoing off the walls. When they made it to the bottom step, OU-473 followed close behind until stopping mid-step at the vision that greeted him.

There were rows--no, _aisles_ \--of Morty’s in suspended animation. With tagged ears and mouths and arms bound with duct tape, every Morty was “asleep” with their eyes open, some wide, some half-lidded, some opened just a crack. Even so, all of them had large, lifeless pupils that could make even some of the more strong hearted Rick’s stomachs turn.

“What the fuck?” OU-473 couldn’t stop the candid words from sprawling out of his mouth.

“Well,” Storage-Rick put a hand on one of the Morty’s in storages shoulder, shrugging casually. “Where else am I gonna store them? You, you know what it’s like managing a team of ten Morty’s? In twelve different stores?” Storage-Rick gave him a look of disbelief. “Now imagine say, I don’t know--we recently hit, 40, 50,000 Mortys? C-can you imagine that many fucking Morty’s running rampant? Do you--do you know how much semen 50,000 horny little Morty’s can produce? You don’t--trust me, you don’t want to know, it’s even bigger mess than it already sounds.”

OU-473 turned his lip up a little as stared down the long hallway of Morty’s that split at the end of it, leading into more underground tunnels of Morty’s. Only when Storage-Rick was a good distance away down the hallway did OU-473 follow, careful to keep just close enough not to lose him.

The further they walked, the shorter and lower the Morty’s numbers on their tags had become. The collection had started off in the thousands, but by the time OU-473’s knees ached and legs burned, they were in the hundreds, and OU-473 had regretted not having more alcohol to drink on the walk.

On their way to wherever Storage-Rick was taking him, they passed a few different types of Mortys. There were some Mortys OU-473 had seen quite a bit of before, like Hippie-Morty’s and Rabbit-Morty’s carefully cleaning and tagging others, only briefly looking OU-473 in the eye before turning back to their work.

Then there were rarer Morty’s--a Psychokinetic Morty was using his mind to snap duct tape across a Morty’s mouth, a Butterfly Morty sitting frozen eerily in his spot with his wide, moth-like eyes staring into nothing. The rare Morty’s that sat unused and forgotten in Storage-Rick’s Daycare would have any Super-Fan crying into the the lapels of their lab coat.

All things considered, how creepy the situation was, Storage-Rick seemed to run a tight ship, and OU-473 was exposed to his anger again when he shouted at a Scruffy-Morty to, ‘ _stop your texting and get ba_ Ugh _ck to work._ ’ With the ways they averted their eyes when the Rick’s walked by, OU-473 could see that these Morty’s were fairly nervous about their employer.

“Sorry for the long walk, shouldn’t, shouldn’t be much longer. These are, uh--a little more expensive than your average Morty, and as you know, fairly-fucking-illegal, so I tend to tuck them in the farther reaches of my storage.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” OU-473 eyed a row of Morty’s who looked like they hadn’t been awoken in quite some time before looking back towards Storage-Rick. “So, uh--how does--how do these Morty’s work exactly?”

Storage-Rick smirked over his shoulder, twirling his toothpick about his tongue thoughtfully before he gave him an answer. “Well, it’s--it’s pretty simple, really. Guarantee you another Rick or two has managed to figure it out the same method but are keeping mum.” Storage-Rick sighed as he fished his own flask he had kept hidden up until now from his pocket.

“You see--the, the Manipulator Chips? I-it was fairly easy to mess with their wiring and _manipulate_ them a little differently, if you catch my drift. Tweak the mainframe a little, add in a couple secret ingredients and well--you, you got yourself a RomChip.”

“A Romchip?” OU-473 repeated, and Storage-Rick turned around and stopped, leaning an arm on a frozen Morty’s shoulder.

“That’s the name, can’t get a patent on it obviously,” Storage-Rick whittled his toothpick in between an incisor as he continued. “But yeah, RomChip, it’s, it’s what makes your brand, spanking new Morty love you. What makes him fuck you, too.”

The callous way Storage-Rick had spoke-- _assumed_ \--that that was what OU-473 wanted to do with his Morty made him grimace, and Storage-Rick was quick to notice.

“Don’t--don’t give me that bullshit, OU-473,” Storage-Rick took a step closer and offered his flask, giving it a small jiggle. “Try and tell me you’re Morty-less--I see the way you look at these Morty’s, I, I know what you’re looking for, I know _who_ you are. You’re a _Morty-phile_. Whatever--not the first one of you to have been down here, and shit dog, it certainly won’t be the last.”

OU-473 took a sip from the other’s flask, nervously looking left to right in fear of any Morty’s who overheard. Had he been looking a little too closely at them than he should have been? Or was that part of Storage-Rick’s selling point, a bluff of his?

"Do--Have you--”

“Fucked a Morty?” Storage-Rick scoffed. “Me? Nah.” Momentarily, Storage-Rick looked appalled, but it was quick to disappear. “Not--not that I, you know,” he cleared his throat, “Judge, or anything, it’s just--I don’t, not a way I swing, is all.”

OU-473 wanted to laugh but all his mouth did was twitch. Storage-Rick said he didn’t judge but in the brief second he let his sales pitch fall, when he let his disgust and disapproval show through, told OU-473 exactly what Storage-Rick thought of _Morty-philes_.

Realizing his mistake, Storage-Rick put a hand on OU-473’s shoulder and used it to lead him down the corridor that seemed to span for eternity with Morty’s.

“L-look man, what--what a Rick does with his Morty, shit--ain’t no skin off my back. I voted against Proposition ‘ _Take Our Morty’s Back_ ,’ let me tell you, y-you do whatever you want with the fucker once you sign all the paperwork over, he’s yours.”

The damage had been done. OU-473 felt a little stupid standing there with this Rick’s arm around his shoulders after the sideways glance that had been thrown his way. At least the illusion that Storage-Rick had sex with these Morty’s made OU-473 feel a little less slimier; at least then he could tell himself that he was better than the Rick who had an underground sex trade of Morty’s he used to exploit other Rick’s hiding deep within the bowels of his store.

Storage-Rick stopped in front a group of Morty’s sitting frozen and silent and looking completely inconspicuous. Standing beside them with a neutral expression was Business-Morty holding clipboard and a set of keys. OU-473 had assumed with bitterness that Business-Morty had portled down here rather than make the overly extravagant, tiring trip by foot.

“So, uh, this is it. If you’re looking for something a little rarer, you’re, you’re going to have to pay an extra fee of about--”

“No,” OU-473 cut the other Rick off quickly. “Looking for just--your typical, run of the mill Morty.” Even now, Rick thought of his Morty back at home. Yellow shirt, jeans, and worn-in sneakers. A big, toothy smile and high cheekbones. A nose like a Rick’s. His heart ached more than it should have as Storage-Rick sneered and took a few steps forward, eyes surveying the Morty’s at their disposal.

“Alright--a, a Rick of simple taste, I feel that,” Storage-Rick murmured as he motioned for OU-473, who approached despite his dread. “How about this little guy, huh? Your typical Morty. Give or take, 17, about 5’11--probably has some growing left in him--and about, I don’t know. 140, 150 pounds? Wiry little things, aren’t they?” Storage-Rick chuckled as he inhaled fondly. “Morty’s--they got, they got the Rick Sanchez build. I can see why they’re hard for a Rick to resist.”

"Yeah,” OU-473 did his best to tune the other out, keenly focusing on the Morty in front of him. With wide eyes, this Morty was as frozen as the rest of them, pupils empty and unfocused in this state. Otherwise, he looked identical to the Morty back on OU-473. Rick could already imagine his soft and jittery laughter, his stutters, and even his sad, stupid attempts to form logical conclusions.

In that very same moment, his mind pleaded and his heart ached all at once.

 _This is wrong--this is fucked_ , screamed his brain, yet his heart weeped and ached, wanted to know the feeling of having a Morty who wanted his Rick, too.

As if sensing his conflict, Storage-Rick gestured a _give-it-here_ motion towards Buisness-Morty, who knowingly dropped a key in his hand. Secured by a yellow, rubber scrunchie, Storage-Rick carefully pulled the Morty in question out from his containment slot and turned him around, motioning towards its RomChip, that was fastened tightly to the nape of his neck. Clear as day was a LED retina screen gleaming beside the keyhole of the chip.

“This key? This is _your_ key--this, this adjusts the level of affection your Morty feels for you.” Storage-Rick slipped it carefully into its ignition and turned it with an audible click, eyes never leaving OU-473’s. “One click is a standard, manipulated Morty. Like any other Morty with a Manipulator Chip on him. Two? You’re gonna, gonna get a highly devoted Morty. Three? He’s going to fall for you, he’s going to want you.”

Storage Rick smirked a little, brow raising suggestively as he made a reach for his flask. “Four? F-for lack of a better term, you, you got a little porn star on your hands. And well--five?” Storage Rick chuckled in between sips. “Y-You won’t be able to get him off you, big guy. He’s practically bed-ridden.”

“It’s as easy as that. Choose wisely though, trust me, it’s a bitch to ge _Eugh_ t the little scamp to change settings once he’s comfortable in his ways.” With eyes half-lidded a good glob of spit on his chin, Storage-Rick knocked at the Morty of his choosing, making the young man shake stiffly in his spot. “So how ‘bout it? Is this--is this the Morty for you, Rick?”

Soon enough Business-Morty was pushing a clipboard with a contract in front of him. His drunkenness made it tough to decipher some of the small words that were listed, but he easily make out _no refunds_ and _not held liable if_.

“Look, it’s--that’s just protocol, just formalities. Pretty much all you need to know is this: you want a new Morty? If, if it’s intact, if nothing has been broken on him, you have about a month to return him. We can’t be responsible if he dies in a freak accident of yours, but he has about--give or take, a two year warranty on him, if he does manage to survive, got a nifty little deal worked out with Nurse-Rick out over there. And look,” Storage Rick sighed and stuck his hands in his pants pockets, tilting forward and back on the balls of his feet as he eyed either side of him.

“You, you get sick of the little shit? You bring him back here, and we’ll take care of it, no questions asked, alright? Look, there are enough homeless Morty’s out there, we’re finding them scruffier and scruffier as the days get by. Just--bring the little guy back here and we’ll take him off your hands. So,” Storage-Rick sighed, gesturing at OU-473’s prospective Morty. “So do you--you want him or not?”

OU-473’s eyes felt wet and he wasn’t sure if it was from straining at the mess of legal jargon on the paperwork or his grief that just wouldn’t pick up and leave.

He looked at Business-Morty, who was offering him a fine-tipped, ink pen. For a moment, when their eyes met, Rick could see the slightest hint of contempt. Even a Business-Morty, who was seen as one of the more colder and harder Morty’s, scrutinized him, deep, brown eyes scolding as he dropped the pen in OU-473’s hand.

OU-473 tried to ignore Business-Morty boring holes throughout his body, judging him, when he sloppily jotted down his home dimension on signature line. Storage-Rick nodded his head in approval, as he signaled for this Morty’s new owner to come closer.

“Alright, co _Ough_ l beans. What, uh--what setting you looking for?” Storage-Rick murmured as he began undoing the tape from the Morty, careful when he pulled, but even the gentlest of tugs made the duct tape peel off with a screech. Business-Morty busied himself with tucking the paperwork into his briefcase, but OU-473 could feel his steely eyes on him the whole decommissioning process.

“T-third is--third is enough.”

 _Three will get the job done_ , OU-473’s Rick told himself. He didn’t want a bed slave, didn’t want a porn star. He just wanted a Morty that loved him the way that he loved his Morty back at home.

Once the tape was removed from the Morty, Storage-Rick used a rather large stapler gun to detach the tag from his ear. Once the Morty was free of his restraints, two more blaring clicks filled the room and Storage Rick slipped out the key, dropping it in UOU-73’s without batting an eye.

“Just needs a sca _aAuughn_ n of your eye, and he’s yours.”

The burn of the laser on his eyes was familiar. It hurt, made him tear up a little, but nothing compared to the rough, bloody ache of his barely existent morals coming undone.

All it took was the pull of a lever and a blaring alarm sounded, encasing his new Morty in a pod and filling it with steam. The whole show of it seemed a bit overdone and useless, and OU-473 entertained himself with a long, last sip of his flask, sad that now, more nervous than earlier, he had managed to drink the last remains of his booze.

He was waiting for it. The sudden hard smack of his new Morty’s hand slapping against the glass, maybe so desperate for consciousness and freedom that he managed to crack the tube trying to contain him. It would make the whole situation feel like another cheesy plot element in the already B-Movie styled scenario.

When it didn’t come, when greeted by a Morty tucking himself quietly into the back of the chamber, OU-473 had to convince himself that there was a big, thick line between Rick’s and Monsters.

Shaking and whimpering, the Morty in the tube looked across his surroundings with dread, momentarily unfocused as he groaned in clear confusion. Once he got his bearings he spotted OU-473 like he recognized him, like he was his original Rick, not without hesitantly rubbing his eyes.

The Morty lept in his direction so fast that his whole body made impact, fists slamming hard enough to shake the glass but not enough to break it.

“R-Rick! Oh god, Rick, please, _please_ don’t, don’t lock me in here, I-I’ll be good, I promise!” Tears were already welling in Morty’s eyes as he began scratching at the glass, knobby knees shaking as began to weep in earnest. “I’ll fight harder Rick, oh God, I promise. I will, will train harder, I know, I-I’m not your strongest Morty but I can be, I-I will be, if, if you give me the chance, Rick, j-just give me the chance!”

OU-473 threw a horrified look in Storage-Rick’s direction, who shrugged modestly.

“Hey, man, it ain’t me--most of these Morty’s? Fighting for Rick’s is all they know.”

One more pull of the lever on the Morty’s chamber made the glass rise, and OU-473 nearly tumbled back when his new Morty launched himself into his arms.

“L-let’s go home, Rick, please, I-I just want to go home, a-a-and make grilled cheeses, and, and search out the new _Ball Fondlers_ \--”

It was instinct to run his hands through his Morty’s new hair, if not to see if it was soft as the Morty’s back at home.

“A-alright,” OU-473 reminded himself to stay composed, strong, and smart--cunning enough to play along with his Morty’s confusion. OU-473 reminded himself about being a Rick. “Alright we’re going baby, w-we’re going.”

“Oh, t-t-thank you,” The shaking Morty in his hands pulled away momentarily to look Rick in the eyes. The way he blushed and looked at Rick’s lips, the way he sucked and nibbled on his own, went straight down to Rick’s groin. “Thank you Rick.”

OU-473 looked past his new Morty, at Storage-Rick behind him. He had his arm around Business-Morty and a shark-like smirk on his face. His eyebrow raised suggestively as he threw a thumbs up in his direction.

It was Business-Morty that bothered OU-473 the most. The way his eyes narrowed, the way his lip curled in disgust. His knuckles shook and turned white with how tight he was squeezing his brief case handle, but he remained still, although visibly flinching with Storage-Rick’s arm around him.

“No problem, baby,” OU-473 managed to whisper when he smiled down at his new Morty, ignoring the dull ache in his heart with his Morty pecked him on the lips. “It’s no--no problem at all.”


End file.
